


beside you

by orphan_account



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Death, Familial bonding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The life and death of Malice Do'Urden, and the trials and tribulations that come alongside it.





	beside you

_ Her body is poised, ready to strike like a snake with its jaw already unhinged. She does not have the element of surprise on her side, yet she seems unfazed, as if the knives in her opponent’s hands don’t scare her in the least. Which is, to say, they don’t, if only because she trusts in her abilities. She grips her own blade’s handle, the metal thirsty for action, for some semblance at violence, for some stickiness of blood smeared across its mirrorlike surface, for some dealing of a fatal strike at the discretion of its wielder.  _

_ She pounces. Her opponent is quick, nimble, and dodges her jab, parrying her with his own dagger when she unsheathes her second knife from its scabbard at her side and shifts her weight from her left to her right in one swift movement. He grins, and just like that the embers of a fight in her are ignited to flame. She spins around and flips the handle around in her grasp while doing so, the point of her blade aimed at his shoulder-- not a fatal move, but a crippling one nonetheless. Her opponent kicks up his foot and hits her squarely on her wrist, instants before her knife can taste skin and everything beneath-- the offending weapon goes flying as she loses her grip. She lets out a roar so obviously feigned, but her opponent realizes his folly too late; in the time he manages to take a step back, she’s flipped her other knife around in her hand and has it held to his throat. His flesh bobs against the tip of the blade, sharp enough to draw blood if she’s not careful. It gleams in her hand, winking at her, like if she looks too closely at her reflection she’ll see Lolth smirking back at her, daring her to do it. _

“You let me win.” Is a statement, not a question. Scorto grins cheekily as Malice retracts her arm and places her stiletto safely in its sheath, walking over to where her other one had gotten stuck in the wall from his kick earlier. She yanks it out of the earth like some faux King Arthur; this short dagger falls a bit too far from the tree to be Excalibur. “Who says?” He shrugs and spreads his arms wide, daring her to attack again. If Malice were two years younger she might’ve, but she knows better, now, knows that Scorto could have her heart on a stake if he wished it. Not by some decree of House Do’Urden, no-- by his own grit alone. It’s not like he ever would, though; arguably enough, Scorto was more loyal to the family than she.

She sighs, knowing this isn’t a fight she’s going to win. “Don’t, next time.” She huffs, wiping the dirt from the knife and sheathing it as well. Scorto smiles faintly as if saying  _ try and stop me, _ but he doesn’t say a word.

Back home Malice dawdles around the dining table, waiting for Scorto to finish cooking. “If you want to help you could say so.” He mentions, using a kitchen knife to pry open the shells of a bowl of oysters. He places them in lines on a roasting pan, sprinkling salt and crushed pepper-seeds overtop before covering them with a slightly smaller pan and bringing them over to where the fire crackles away in the den area. He puts the layered pans on top of a grate over the flame and allows the shellfish to cook away, returning to where Malice paces while they do. She sniffs the air, already thick with spice, and sneezes. Scorto muffles a laugh into his hand, hiding it behind clearing his throat. Malice still glares at him, but he acts like he doesn’t notice.

Dinner is a veneered affair, with Malice and Scorto on their best behavior for Vartha. She eats slowly and meticulously, throwing a wrench in Scorto’s usual pace as he struggles to match her snail’s movements. Malice does so effortlessly, as is expected of the successor of the matron mother, doing so with finesse that Scorto finds she forgoes when it’s just the two of them. Vartha doesn’t notice Malice acting any different than she usually does, what with Malice altering her presence every time Vartha makes an appearance, but she keeps a watchful eye on Scorto, as if he might slip up if she shifts her gaze away. Scorto doesn’t look up, but he feels her eyes on him, like embers charring away at the edges of his very being. They dine in silence.

Afterwards, though Malice pleas for Scorto to spar with her again, he ends up convincing her to take some time for her clerical studies as she was before their match. “How are you going to become matron mother without learning, Mal?” He points out, and despite his shorter stature he manages to make her feel like she’s the one who’s got to look up at him, if only in spirit. She deflates like a wilted flower at having her request rejected, but she doesn’t feel all that bad in truth-- rather, she actually feels somewhat spoiled, having someone like Scorto around to keep her in check to begin with. With a lighter heart than before, Malice nods, miffed only in appearance, and Scorto grins toothily at her as he reads her like a book. “If you manage to stay in there for an hour and a half, we can have a best two out of three.” He nearly laughs at how she perks up almost instantly, then tries to feign sheepishness.

_ Sweat slithers down her temple like a snake that’s gone far too long without a sunbathe. The handle of one of her two stilettos is rough in her hand like a feline tongue, the original bandages that had clothed it for softer hands having worn away and fallen off, leaving her palms just as, if not more, calloused as before. Scorto stands opposite her, both his knives already drawn in a defensive pose as he waits for her to make the first move. His torso wouldn’t be an easy target, what with the blades stationed there, but Malice wonders if she can draw his attention elsewhere, she can get a jab with the blunt side of her dagger in. She doesn’t waste all her time thinking, though-- in a moment she charges forwards, driving her knife towards Scorto’s abdomen, but before he can parry she changes directions and throws her leg up, landing a roundhouse kick straight to the side of Scorto’s neck. He staggers to the right, slightly disoriented from the assault, but he still has his wits about him when Malice grips her stilettos and follows his movements with her own as she attempts to jab him in the stomach with the blunt edges of her knives, parrying her repeated attacks with ease that’s only the slightest bit obvious that it is, in fact, not easy to keep up. _

_ Malice figures she’ll wear him down after some time so that she can beat him fair and square, but surprisingly enough, Scorto manages, if only by a little, to keep rhythm with her pace. It’s like a dance, the dodging and distance and brushes with death, but Malice finds that it’s at times like these she feels most alive. She wonders if Scorto feels the same as she jumps back from his attempted stab at her, only to lunge forward with her knives at the ready the next moment. _

It’s only a few days after her hundredth birthday that Vartha dies. Scorto and Malice sit at her bedside throughout the whole affair, listening to her ramblings about a gentle darkness enveloping her, bit by bit, and about how her life, when flashing before her eyes, was nothing that spectacular no matter how she tried to spin it. “Malice.” She had said, raising her hand to her daughter’s cheek. “You will make a fine matron mother.” The words looked as if they pained her, but she still made it a point to pull them from her tongue. “You must--”

“Mother, please.” Malice whispers, placing her own hand gently over Vartha’s. “Don’t speak.” 

Vartha smiles, then; it’s not the dazzling grin that Malice firmly believed could light the Underdark all on its own that Scorto harbored, but it is a smile nonetheless, and Malice feels a tear sting at her left eye. She bites her lip and draws the waterworks back in, refusing to let Vartha see such a weak side of her. 

“Goodnight, Malice, Scorto.” Vartha says quietly, and the two exchange a glance before looking back to their mother. Her voice is frail, like that of a drow much more elderly than she, but Malice supposes it fits with her withered appearance, like a fish that’s been out of water far too long. She doesn’t cry, though, not even as Vartha’s hand falls from her face, and not even as Vartha’s eyes turn glossy and dead. Scorto places a hand on her shoulder, but Malice refuses to let tears fall.

She ascends to the head of the House Do’Urden shortly after. It’s then that Scorto disappears, and Malice, being Malice, does not tell anyone of her brother’s disappearance-- instead she busies herself with drow of the male persuasion. Briza is born when she has only been matron mother for a year, yet Malice does not stop there. Nalfein, her first son, conceptualizes only a couple weeks after Briza’s birth. Neither of the drow that had contributed to her children’s existence hang around long enough for Malice to formally invite them into her life, but then again, she supposes that she prefers it this way, watching the world from her bedside window as Nalfein and Briza weep their own babyish faces into sleep. She thinks of Scorto more than ever, now.

When she meets Zaknafein, Malice feels something akin to fate sneaking up on her. She isn’t so dumb as to invite him into her home without explicitly disagreeing with his blatant disregard for Lolth in his day-to-day life (she’s matron mother, she has to have  _ some  _ devotion to her position), but despite his flippant nature Malice finds herself wanting him more and more, day by day. This is, of course, ignoring the hatred that grew alongside said desire, neck and neck at all times. She supposes it’s only fitting she bore Drizzt to this enigmatic man. 

Malice remembers birthing Drizzt well-- she supposes it makes sense, since she  _ did _ use the agony of bringing him into this world to her advantage so that she could attack the House DeVir. Plus, they had just fallen out of Lolth’s favor, so what better time to grow her the House Do’Urden? 

To be completely transparent, Malice had had a sour inkling about Drizzt the moment he fell from her body like a droplet of water falling from ceiling to floor. It made sense, though, since he was to be sacrificed-- only, her other son Dinin murdering her eldest, Nalfein, had left him somewhat in limbo. It had been at that time that Malice had thought  _ what now? What now, now that this babe has turned mine against one another? _

This inkling, this tainted feeling deep in Malice’s gut, lasts throughout Drizzt’s childhood. She recalls her intentions for Drizzt to replace Nalfein as House Wizard, and she recalls being shot down by that infernal Zak. She recalls him training Drizzt with the help of Vierna, a daughter she’d born from the elder drow, and she recalls Briza’s insistence that Malice teach her the same things they had taught Drizzt. She recalls a sense of hatred festering in her, one whispering in her ears that she should beware her youngest child. Beware she did, but still the blackened feeling of sticky distaste in her gut twisted and writhed inside.

She feels betrayed, when she and Briza scry the conversation between Zak and his son, learning that the drow she had been promised (oh, how Zak had  _ promised! _ ) would become the “finest Weapons Master in Menzoberranzan  _ history _ ” had refused to kill a moon elf child! She feels betrayed, and not only by Zaknafein whom she had always figured would weasel his way into backstabbing her at some point, but also by Drizzt, the son she’d born from her own body, from her own womb! 

“Mother, mother!” Briza cries out when she hears the words. Malice does not speak. 

When Drizzt leaves Menzoberranzan and eventually the Underdark for the Surface, she feels nothing but rage, giving way to the screaming mass begging for destruction within her. Losing Lolth’s favor is one thing, but losing Lolth’s favor because of her son is something else entirely. The small, gentle fondness Malice’s maternal instincts had provided her with the moment she held a baby Drizzt in her arms, covered in blood and other unspeakable fluids, had died, in the moment she felt the strength of her goddess leave her. That is, if it had not already been dead, and that was simply the nail in the coffin. 

She thinks of Scorto more than ever, now. She wonders if he is still alive, or if he, too, is writhing in agony six feet under.

* * *

The surface is a strange place, Scorto thinks.

It’s not that he  _ tried _ to pick fights, but sometimes people were just  _ begging  _ for a blow to the jugular! He supposes he can chalk it up to how much he enjoys sparring, sure, but with no one familiar around, isn’t this the best he can do?

So it’s not exactly a huge surprise when he can’t find his way home that easily after one particularly well-aimed blow to his cranium. He sort of earned this with his being so brash, Scorto thinks, his thoughts a bit misplaced in his scrambled brain. Wait, what was it that he’d earned again?

It’s a long journey, to say the least. He had only ended up here in the first place because he had followed a somewhat mischievous fairy a tad too far from home, and before he’d known it, two hundred years had passed. He’d only stumbled out of their realm by chance, to tell the truth, but he’s grateful nonetheless. He wonders if his little sister has ever seen the Surface like this, ever fought with the kinds of people he’s fought with. He treks on despite what was practically a crude lobotomy skewing his mind.

And on, and on.

It feels like it’s been millennia since he’s seen Malice, and to be fair, it has been centuries, so he can give himself that. Yet her face is still fresh in his mind, like he’d been sparring behind the house with her just yesterday. He hopes that no one’s been treating her ill, and that no one’s been taking her less seriously because of her stature. Too many people had done that on the Surface for Scorto, and they had ended up injured, or worse.

(By worse he means heavily injured. Scorto feels the need to clarify.)

When he does finally find his way back to the Underdark, then to Menzoberranzan, he feels a sense of relief that he hasn’t afforded himself in quite some time. It feels like coming home, even if home is full of bloodthirsty drow who hide their enjoyment in violence behind sophisticated masks. It feels like coming home, and Scorto can’t help the tiny bit of a skip in his step as he ambles along the path that leads to the house that once held only Malice and Scorto and Vartha. Even if Vartha is dead and gone, Scorto feels deep inside that he can trust Malice will be the same as she always was, back then.

…

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Malice is the same as she’s always been, at least when Scorto was around. Her edges are just a bit sharper, her movements a bit more graceful, her step a step with a bit more purpose behind it than before. At least, this is what Scorto gets from the face she wears when she throws the door open to reveal her long lost brother, looking as if she’s ready to stab the next person to cross her path. Yet her expression, shocked enough that Scorto’s 100% sure for a moment she might keel over, melts into one that might cry when he grins lopsidedly at her. “I’m home.” Are the only words out of his mouth before Malice leaps forward and embraces him for all of Menzoberranzan to see.

Adjusting to life with Malice again isn’t difficult-- it’s getting accustomed to her children that’s the hard part. Briza, with her harsh words and not even  _ remotely _ friendly insults, is probably the toughest not to provoke, and Scorto tests himself daily trying to stay the dumb older brother in her eyes. Vierna, Dinin and Maya take to him fairly quickly, though they seem to keep him at an arms’ length, as if they think that if he gets any closer he’ll stab them in their backs when they least expect it. Scorto supposes that’s a fair thing for any drow to do, as that is somewhat a trait of their race as a whole, but he likes to believe it’s just because they’re shy. Shy is easier to accept, for him.

(It goes without saying that adjusting to Zaknafein and Rizzen is an affair in and of itself.)

It’s late one evening when Malice asks him to make spiced oysters again, like he did so often when they were younger. “If you laugh, I’ll gut you.” She says as seriously as she can manage over such a silly topic, but Scorto can tell she’s biting her lip not to laugh.

Over their meal, while Malice’s offspring are busy gallivanting around the town (see: looking for a reason to escape the house for the time being) with their fathers hot on their heels, Scorto tells her stories of the Surface. “It’s strange.” He says, chewing thoughtfully on oystermeat. “You see all kinds of people wherever you go, and they’re all quite easily offended, I should add.” He grins toothily. 

It’s been hours by the time the children return, Dinin and Maya as a pair while Vierna and Briza seem to orchestrate their timing to keep from colliding. Malice tells Scorto then that while she would love to sit and hear about his adventure for as long as possible, she  _ does _ have duties to fulfill as matron mother.  _ Oh, right, _ Scorto thinks to himself.  _ She inherited the title when Vartha died. _

Thinking about his late mother does not rouse much despair in him, even now. Scorto wonders if that makes him evil, like so many of the drow in the Underdark. For some odd reason, though, he feels it’s something that makes him  _ him _ , for lack of better word. It was unlike Scorto to become overwhelmed with the common despair that death often wrought. A charm point, he thinks fondly.

Other charm points of Scorto’s include, but aren’t limited to, his lack of fear in all situations deserving of such. Such as when Malice had left the house one morning on matron mother duties Scorto felt he was better off not knowing the gory details of, and Scorto managed to corner both Zaknafein and Rizzen in the same room. 

“I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page.” He says cheerfully to the twisted expressions painted on the two drow before him. Zak scoffs. “I’m sure that you have nothing to worry about with Rizzen, at least.” He jabs. Rizzen shoots him a dirty glare, but says nothing, clearly slightly terrified by the unbothered face Scorto can wear even when confronted by someone larger than he like Zak. 

Scorto considers this. “You may be right,” he starts, thinking as he speaks then grinning a smile too wide to be reassuring, “but I figured it couldn’t hurt to make you aware.” His eyes narrow to slits. “So watch your backs, okay?” 

The looks on their faces are ones Scorto’s sure he’ll use as laugh material forever. It doesn’t help that they seem to be underestimating him-- that’s something that always can garner a giggle from Scorto. Especially when he’s got them on the ground beneath him, daggers against their respective throats. Part of Scorto hopes they follow his ground rules, and another part, well. Another part is just hoping for an excuse to try them out in battle, castration included or not.

Malice returns to two male drow with their tails between their legs.

Things are simple like that, for a while. It’s when Drizzt returns that life turns complicated, and Scorto watches Malice devolve, right before his very eyes. Scorto hears most of the story from Zak while eavesdropping on a conversation between him and Drizzt, complete with emotions that Scorto thinks would be shameful to show outside the house. Love, he thinks, though beautiful, is something other drow wouldn’t hesitate to exploit.

Malice, on the other hand, seems to be feeling the polar opposite of what Zaknafein is. She glares daggers at Drizzt whenever they’re in the same room, and on more than one occasion Scorto has had to hold her back from unsheathing her knives and going to town right in her kitchen when Drizzt enters to retrieve some food. The younger drow seems to understand her anger, too-- why else would he purposely stray away from being alone with Malice, why else would he hesitate to respond to any word she spoke?

Scorto feels bad for the kid, no matter how wrong it may seem to be. He finds himself taking Drizzt under his wing, bit by bit, and the more he does, the more Malice’s temper seems to shorten. Scorto wonders if he’s hit a nerve, but still, proceeds as he always has-- with his knives at the ready, no matter who his opponent may be.

* * *

If there’s one thing Malice cannot abide by while Drizzt is living in her house under her rules, it’s taking up Scorto’s time. She feels betrayed, and this time it digs much deeper than before despite all the backstabbing she’s been through already. She feels like Scorto is her last link to the life she had before, and with Drizzt slowly stealing him away, she thinks that the straw that breaks the camel’s back is soon to fall upon her.

Rather than confronting Scorto, though, Malice does what she does best-- she devotes herself to her role as matron mother. Though Drizzt has forced her out of Lolth’s favor and the House Do’Urden is on the decline, there has to be  _ something _ she can do to appeal to Lolth once more. So she studies, reading every last scripture she can find, practically scrying everyone in Menzoberranzan for any ideas that may pass through the drow. Malice throws herself into her work so intensely that, for a while, she thinks she may manage to win her goddess back. She isn’t sure if she’s deluding herself, but the hope is there, nonetheless.

Though, for all her hard work, when she prays to Lolth once more, it’s evident the goddess still won’t give her the time of day. Malice thinks she might break, this time, even after all she’s already lived through and survived. She thinks, just for a moment, that she might as well give up.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Scorto who saves her resolve. Drizzt is out one day with Zaknafein when Malice’s brother knocks gently on her door, murmuring his identity so she can tell him to come in. When her voice barely filters through the wood he rushes in, clasping her hand between his and feeling at her wrist for a pulse. “I’m not dead, you idiot.” She says quietly, but from her appearance, she can see why he’d think such a thing. She’s laying facedown in her bed, blankets thrown over her though she’s not even cold, with the lamp dim on her bedside table.  _ I must be the picture of health, _ she thinks sarcastically to herself.

Once he has confirmation Malice is, indeed, very not-dead, Scorto relaxes slightly and pulls up a stool to sit beside her. “You’ve been overworking yourself, haven’t you?” He says right off the bat, and Malice is surprised at how observant he is despite her being well aware it was one of his better traits. “I suppose.” She murmurs, feeling very tired. 

Scorto’s gaze softens as her resolve slowly tumbles down onto her, waiting below the tower of expectations she’s built up inside herself. He takes a lock of her hair in his hand and twirls it around his finger. “Do you remember,” he starts, sounding somewhat unsure of himself and leaving her to wonder why in the moment that he pauses, “when we were young, and we used to spar nearly every day?” He smiles at the memory. “And how I’d have to bargain with you to get you to study?” 

Malice’s eyes drift closed as she relives her childhood, if only for a short while. “Yes.” She answers, a hint of a smile in her voice. “You always let me win.” She reminisces on the thrill she got from fighting back then, pondering where that spark had gone off to.

Scorto pouts. “You just happened to be a good fighter!” He protests. Malice breathes out a laugh, and while her eyes are still closed, Scorto smiles, genuinely, for the first time in a while. When Malice looks at him next, the expression is a ghost of its former self, the faint grin he always wears back in its usual spot. She doesn’t second guess his lack of a nostalgic look; she’s much too tired to second guess anything, right now.

The next time Scorto takes Drizzt outside to spar, Malice watches them through the window. She won’t admit it just yet, but she can see something different in Drizzt now, something she hadn’t seen before and likely would never have seen if not for rekindling her relationship with her dear brother.

She blames the moon cycle when Briza asks about her good mood. And just like that, things are at peace for a while, between Scorto’s training Drizzt and Malice’s work and Rizzen’s daily escapades with his children. Zaknafein, Malice likes to think, is probably jealous of Scorto, at this point. It makes her smile to think of him pouting and kicking the ground like a sad child.

Still, nothing good lasts forever, as Malice knows all too well. The world she has made for herself, outside of the House Do’Urden and inside the humble abode she calls home, still abides by Lolth’s wishes, as Malice often has to remind herself. There is only so much she can do to gain her favor back in these last ditch attempts, yet eventually a good idea comes to her. Zaknafein, infuriatingly, does not seem to be angry with her when she chars his flesh and bone away to ash to get her House one step closer to being one with their goddess once more. He just watches, almost content, as his face and hair and clothes catch fire, burning him to a crisp until there is nothing left but dust in the wind.

Dust in the wind that, unfortunately for Malice and the House Do’Urden, does not seem to blow in any way that pleases Lolth. Malice thinks that at this point she could offer her entire family up for nothing but displeasure on Lolth’s end, if that.

Of course, Malice is also aware of her family becoming uneasy. Other Houses are only serving to place more pressure atop the matron mother’s shoulders, and Malice realizes that if she isn’t careful she’ll crack from the stress. Briza seems to be watching her every move, even when it isn’t necessarily appropriate-- she’ll sit at the table and watch Malice taste test Scorto’s new recipes, and she’ll watch her spar with him, too. Malice feels somewhat violated, yet a little stupid for feeling this way because of her own daughter. Then again, she supposes, Briza  _ was  _ her daughter after all, and Malice would do well not to underestimate offspring no matter if they were hers or not. She has to watch her own back, now more than ever.

Vierna is the one to bring it to her attention. “Mother.” She calls, softly in the hours of the night, and Malice invites her into her room to talk. “It’s about Briza…” She trails off, seeming conflicted. “I scried her plotting, something, the other day.” Vierna looks down at her hands.

Malice nods, as if she’d already known (which, in a way, she had). “Don’t say any more.” The matron mother raises a finger to her lips. “It’d be best for you to look after yourself, Vierna.” 

The second daughter gazes up at her, then. “How do you manage to stay so strong, even without Lolth?” She asks, and for some reason Malice can’t be bothered to tell if she’s asking for her own personal gain or out of awe. She shrugs, anyway, feeling that there wasn’t really words to be put to  _ how _ just yet. Somehow, she feels she won’t have to much longer. It wasn’t that she was forseeing her own death, no-- just that there was something on the horizon, something waiting, something on its way to swallow her whole.

The sense of impending doom doesn’t disappear for a while; in fact, it hangs over Malice like a dark cloud, not even slightly clearing when Scorto makes spiced oysters as a treat for her doing her absolute best for Lady Lolth. “Is it really that bad?” He asks, one day. “I don’t know too much about all these priestess things.” He laughs.

Malice, despite herself, allows herself a chuckle. “It is.” She says, smiling hesitantly. “It is.”

Perhaps it’s that tiny, miniscule bit of carefree personality in Malice that triggers it. She is both expecting it and not when the House Hun’ett attacks-- they had been on bad terms for a while, after all. It was only days after she’d been hiding behind her dread that she now walked through the House Do’Urden with drow bodies littered across the floor, both Do’Urden’s and Hun’ett’s.

Though her house had been victorious, Malice still can’t seem to shake the feeling of dread from the pit in her stomach. It twists and grows, all too familiar, until it feels like it may suffocate her if she’s not careful. She feels like she’s walking on eggshells more than ever, and the addition of someone to her household doesn’t help in the least. Malice curses Yvonnel Baenre and SiNafay Hun’ett both, or as Yvonnel now calls her, Shi’nayne Do’Urden, her “eldest daughter”. Scorto takes to her easily, as do Drizzt and Vierna, but Briza, Malice, Maya and Dinin all stay wary of her even after she’s made herself at home in their house. Malice blames the far too trusting personalities of Drizzt and Vierna on the late Zaknafein, and she curses him even in death for his influence.

There are only so many more sacrifices Malice can make to place the House Do’Urden back on Lolth’s good side, she knows. Still, she finds herself somewhat pleased when Shi’nayne bleeds upon the stone of the Underdark floor without any qualms otherwise, even if Scorto looks away. Even though she knows it will do little to bring the House to its power it once was, Malice still feels the allure in giving in to evil and killing for the sake of killing. She only manages to sheathe her knife when Scorto meets her gaze, looking on without even a hint of mirth. The joy drains from her body near immediately.

Life continues, as it always does. Scorto and Drizzt take to sharing stories of the Surface, to which Malice will listen intently to what with her having been confined to the Underdark all her life. She allows the tales of elves and fairies and whatnot to lull her into something like relaxation, though she still hangs onto every last word. 

When she spars next, it is not with Scorto this time, but Drizzt. The latter seems a bit anxious about the pairing with Malice’s previous, unabashed hatred for him and his existence as a whole, but Scorto insists she won’t aim to kill.  _ Hopefully, _ he thinks to himself, laughing inwardly at Drizzt’s alarmed expression when he chuckles.

Despite her five hundred years in age just barely beginning to wear away at her, Malice still moves as nimbly as she did centuries ago when it was just her and Scorto and matron mother Vartha. Scorto is overcome with nostalgia for a moment at her movements, so much so that he nearly misses how Malice purposely nicks Drizzt on the arm with her knife. “Play nice!” He shouts, and Malice laughs aloud and Drizzt becomes more and more defensive in fighting style.

Nobody seems to notice Briza watching from the window when Malice’s blade taps the bob of Drizzt’s throat, then retracts. The eldest daughter grits her teeth and turns away.

* * *

At the end of time, Scorto ponders what will be left. Will there still be such a title as “matron mother”? Will “Houses” still be, you know, a thing? Who will outlive who? Who won’t outlive who?

Scorto does not have the answers to these questions, but he does know one thing, and that is that above all, above the House Do’Urden and Lolth, Scorto is loyal to Malice and Malice alone, her daughters and sons be damned. He knows that’s not a good philosophy for a drow to have, especially one living in a House outside of the good graces of their goddess, but it was something he cherished, that connection to Malice, that tie that may fray and wither but would never break. Not now, not ever.

It’s funny, he muses, just how much Malice had changed in the time he’d been gone on the Surface. She’d become a matron mother that would make Vartha proud, in his opinion. He feels sorry for her, and sorry for Drizzt that had gotten caught up in the mess with her House and Lolth. He even feels sorry for Zaknafein, now, and how his untimely death had been, essentially, for absolutely nothing. 

When the House Baenre attacks, Scorto has an inkling that this is the end of their days, much less their days as a family, no matter how skewed they had been. Still, he can’t help but weep, for one of two times in his lifetime. The first time had been when Malice was born.

Sitting on the ground beside where the corpse of his sister lays, Scorto reminisces. He thinks back to Vartha’s rare cooking and the few recipes she had taught him. He thinks back to how much effort he’d put into pleasing her only to learn she had loved him, when she died, no matter how much she had seemed to say otherwise. He thinks about Malice as a child, how energetic and excited she’d been about life as a whole, as if the world was her oyster, pun intended. He wishes he could’ve brought her to the Surface with him, even if it had caused the House Do’Urden to fall to pieces in the absence of a matron mother.  _ She always listened so quietly to those stories, too,  _ he thinks, a sad smile making its way across his lips.

He can hear footsteps approaching from behind him, and without a gruesome look or anything reminiscent of the Scorto from before, he pulls the dagger lodged in Malice’s bosom from her chest, even with the handle still sticky with blood and coating his palm. He turns to face the offender, taking on a fighting stance yet not doing so to provoke but instead to defend. Briza steps towards him, a crazed smirk painted across her face. She’s still splattered with blood, though it’s not her own. Scorto knows without any other indicator that it’s Malice’s.

Briza spreads her arms wide, then. “Well, Uncle?” She says, as if baiting him into attacking while she’s open like this, but Scorto knows better. “What’s to say we end it?”

Scorto doesn’t reply. He charges forward, and that is answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> to the person who left me a terribly nasty comment: please stay off my profile, what i do with my time and money is not your business. thank you!


End file.
